


The Stewards

by Altariel



Series: Garden of Gondor [13]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Teitho Fanfiction Contest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-08 03:09:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19862527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altariel/pseuds/Altariel
Summary: Faramir and Sam, in old age.





	The Stewards

**The Stewards**

“Your land must be a realm of peace and content, and there must gardeners be held in high honour.” Faramir, _The Window on the West_

_Emyn Arnen, 60 F.A._

***

They walked for an hour or so out amongst the vines, Sam seeming to stop at every single one to check the grafts or crumble soil through old worn fingers. The Prince did not complain about the slow pace, and if either young Tom or the boy, Sasi, minded, they were polite enough not to say.

Their route back took them through the rose garden. Tom and Sasi trotted off to retrieve what was needed for the planting. Sam and Faramir sat on a bench in the shade of a line of trees. 

Éowyn, straight-backed and silver-haired, was out inspecting the first bloom of spring. She lifted her arm in greeting, and continued making her selection. On her way back to the house, she stopped beside them. She bent to kiss Sam on the top of his head and gave him one of the roses, delicate white. He tucked it in the buttonhole of his waistcoat.

The two of them, Man and Halfling, sat together in peaceable silence for a while. The garden was still and quiet. The rose had a sweet scent. Sam sighed, and breathed deeply. 

“I am sorry,” said Faramir, at last, “that Mistress Rose could not come South this year.”

“Aye, well,” said Sam, and said no more.

Tom and Sasi returned, bearing tools and a small sapling. “Here?” said Sasi, in his high child’s voice, pointing at the ground with his stick. Seven years old; it was the first time he had joined them at the planting. Tom, a veteran of the ceremony, looked down the line of trees. “A little to the left, I think, Sasi.”

Happy at last with their positioning, Tom and the boy began to dig. Sam and Faramir watched. Sam drew out his pipe, but did not light it. Instead he closed his eyes, and he may well have dozed for a while, his hands clasping the pipe to his chest. Faramir rested back his head, and listened to the work.

Over the long years of their friendship, Sam and his family had often come South and each time they stayed at Emyn Arnen, they planted a tree. There were sixteen of them now; forming a long line that sheltered the garden. The first, more than fifty years old, reached up long arms; the youngest was a fair sapling of eight summers. One year, there had been almost two dozen of them at the planting: Faramir and Éowyn and their three, and the new baby, Barahir, only a few weeks old; Sam and Rose and at least ten of theirs, not to mention a grandchild or two.

The noontide of their lives. As a young man, Faramir had not dared to dream that such could be his. A land of bones and ruins now filled with life and laughter. A wife, children, grandchildren. Years of peace, and the King upon the throne…

The bees hummed. The spring sun warmed old limbs.

“Dad,” said Tom. “We’re ready.”

Faramir opened his eyes. Sam was leaning forwards, hands planted firmly on his knees, ready to issue orders.

“Do we put the tree in now?” asked Sasi, staring wide-eyed down into the hole.

“No, no, no!” Sam scolded, but there was a twinkle in his eye. “Before we plant the tree, we bury treasure. You must always,” he said solemnly, “plant treasure with a tree.”

Sasi glanced at his grandfather, who nodded. He said, “What will you bury, grandpapa?

Faramir found a silver coin. Sam, seeing it, snorted. “Is that supposed to be old Strider?” he said. “Looks naught like him.”

Tom, after poking around a pocket or two, drew out a brass button. “Ah, that’s where it got to!” he said. “Never mind. Mam sewed on another, good as new.”

“What about you, Master Samwise?” said Sasi.

Sam held up his pipe. “This, I think.”

“Not your pipe!” said Faramir, in some alarm.

“Second-best,” said Sam. “Rosie’s gift is back in the house.”

Sasi, collecting the treasures – button, pipe, coin – laid them in a line at his feet. Shyly, he drew out his own offering.

A tiny wooden shieldmaiden. “Will she last?” said Sasi. “In the ground, I mean?”

“She will,” said Faramir.

“She’ll be fine,” said Tom.

“She’ll be part of the roots,” said Sam.

The boy knelt down and, with great ceremony, put the treasures in place. Tom brought the tree and, together, he and the boy took hold, and filled the hole. Faramir watched them work; loved them for their youth and their strength and their promise.

When they were done, Sasi stood up, and brushed fresh soil from small fingers. He looked down the long line of trees. He said, “I wonder what’s under the others.”

Faramir, who could tell him exactly what lay beneath each one, said, “Perhaps you’ll find out one day.”

He rose, joints creaking, and offered Sam his hand. They all walked together back into the house. The years had sped past so quickly, in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> If my dates are right… Faramir is 98; Éowyn is 86. Sam is 101; Tom (Tolman), Sam’s youngest, is 39. Rose dies Mid Year’s Day, the following year (FA 61), after which Sam goes West. 
> 
> Sasi is my own creation, and is the child of Léof and his Khandian wife, Vani. Léof is Faramir’s second son in my stories. 
> 
> Written for the ‘Gardens’ challenge at Teitho, where it placed second. 
> 
> _Altariel, 27th June 2019_


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